


this golden heart unburied

by Strawberry_Champagne



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Anal Sex, Bisexual Cullen Rutherford, Blow Jobs, Casual Sex, Dom/sub Undertones, Drinking, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, Hurt/Comfort, Lyrium Addiction, Lyrium Withdrawal, M/M, Major Character Injury, Massage, Masturbation, Misunderstandings, Nipple Play, Sexual Experimentation, Under-negotiated Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-27
Updated: 2020-12-11
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:07:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27747214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Strawberry_Champagne/pseuds/Strawberry_Champagne
Summary: Cullen discovers that his libido has returned after discontinuing the lyrium he has been using since he was a teenager—and to his great surprise, that his interests may also extend to men. Dorian offers to help him find a suitable partner to explore this discovery, but things get more complicated when feelings and his past as a templar are involved.
Relationships: Cullen Rutherford/Donal Sutherland, Dorian Pavus/Cullen Rutherford
Comments: 25
Kudos: 116





	1. the one who listens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Korth devised a plan that he might never be betrayed by his own heart … He sealed it inside a golden cask, buried it in the earth, and raised around it the fiercest mountains the world had ever seen. … Food lost its flavor, music had no sweetness, and he lost all joy in deeds of valor. _– “The Ptarmigan”, from _Ferelden: Folklore and History _by Sister Petrine, a controversial Chantry scholar____

The Herald's Rest was packed with customers, a diverse mixture of soldiers, agents of the Inquisition and some of the more adventurous noble guests. Cullen drank alone, his lieutenants having left the table a little while ago to pursue other distractions. Evidently, the Iron Bull had told them about some women in the kitchens who swooned over soldiers in uniform. Cullen had been invited, but he politely declined. That was the game of young men, sowing their wild oats, and he was that no longer. And besides, how would it look—the Commander of the Inquisition's forces bedding a scullery maid? He had the utmost respect for these women, but he was not one to take advantage of his position.

And so they had left him. It was almost refreshing to have a moment's peace to himself, even with the tavern noisy with song and shouted revelry. The ale cast a euphoric haze over his mind, allowing Cullen to finally relax. It was a fine diversion to observe the other patrons, to listen in to snatches of nearby conversations, none making sense but all amusing.

Out of the corner of his eye, Cullen spied a young man descending the stairs from the tavern's upper level. It was that new recruit, the eager one who had just returned from his first mission, what was his name—ah, yes. Sutherland.

In the tavern's busy warmth, Sutherland wore little on his upper body but a worn leather vest, revealing arms corded with lean muscle. Candlelight reflected on his high cheekbones, glinting in warm brown eyes that cast about the room. Searching for what—a companion? A place to sit and drink? He passed close by and Cullen's eyes followed the man, sweeping over broad shoulders that narrowed to hips slung with belts and straps, then down...

Cullen's face heated as he snapped back up and away, to look somewhere else, anywhere else. And there, at a table in a far corner, was Dorian Pavus—cup held to lips that curled conspiratorially, kohl-rimmed eyes locked on his.

Cullen drained his mug and pushed his chair back, weaving through the tavern's patrons and stamping out into the yard. The crisp mountain air cooled his cheeks and cleared his mind. What in Andraste's name was happening? It had been many years since he had experienced much desire at all, so long ago that he had scarcely been old enough to do anything about those stirrings. From what he remembered of that time, though, Cullen had only been drawn to women. This... this was new.

Or was it? Vague memories surfaced from the years that Cullen spent in templar training, fleeting crushes on older boys that he had attributed to admiration of their more advanced skills. It wasn't as if he was given much time for such things. They had worked him from dawn ‘til dusk, most days. Discipline had been his highest master.

Now, though...

Well, now was hardly the ideal time to be exploring new and exciting facets of his sexuality, either. Cullen was the commander of an army, constantly training and planning their next move against an unpredictable enemy. Most of the likely men to have a... dalliance with, were either under his command or serving the Inquisition in some other capacity. Cullen tried to imagine himself approaching someone, making an invitation—or making himself available for theirs. He shivered at the mental image.

“Doesn't that blighted monstrosity on your shoulders at least keep you warm?”

Cullen whirled at the intrusion on his contemplations, gravel crunching under his feet. So absorbed had he been, he hadn't even heard Dorian's approach. The mage was wearing that infuriating smirk, the one that had sent Cullen stomping out here in the first place. He exhaled heavily, feeling a headache coming on. They were triggered by the smallest thing, of late. Ever since he had... stopped. Cullen perched on the edge of a low stone wall, pinching the bridge of his nose, head bowed.

“Come now, there's no need to take it so hard,” said Dorian. “Not everyone can be so devastatingly fashionable.”

Cullen risked a weary glance back up at the mage and grunted when the sudden movement sent a fresh spike of pain through his temple.

“Commander,” came a softer voice, after a moment. “Are you quite alright? Is it the...”

Dorian trailed off, stopping short of explicitly voicing his suspicions. Cullen was no fool—he realized that any mage who knew of his templar background would realize that he had stopped taking lyrium. They could smell it on him. Or rather, _not_ smell it.

“I'm fine,” he insisted, despite all signs to the contrary.

“I see.” Dorian lapsed into silence, but it was never to last long. “You know, I couldn't help but notice, back at the tavern—”

When Cullen groaned this time, it was for an entirely different reason. Dorian ignored it, of course, and carried on blithely.

“Sutherland has a passably handsome face, I suppose. But he brings to mind an overeager Mabari pup, all youthful enthusiasm without much going on upstairs—unless you go in for that sort of thing. Honestly, I had no idea your inclinations even ran that way. The point that I'm trying to make, my dear Commander, is that you could really do so much better.”

“Neither did I,” Cullen said quietly, head in hands. Not quiet enough, evidently, if Dorian's stunned silence was anything to go by. Damn the ale.

“Did you just... Do you mean to say...?”

“I don't _mean_ to say anything. Forget it, Dorian. I should return to my quarters. Training begins early, at first light.” Just like it did every morning.

As Cullen stood and began to turn toward the stair to his rooms on the ramparts, a hand loosely clasped around his upper arm.

“Cullen,” Dorian began, and that instantly gained his attention. The mage rarely used his given name in address. Cullen turned to face him. “I know that I constantly jest and tease, and that is unlikely to change. But not with this. Never with this.”

Dorian's eyes were softer and more vulnerable than Cullen had ever seen them, not dancing with their usual mischief or mirth. It caught him completely off his guard, leaving him unsure how to respond.

“I... Thank you.” Cullen swallowed, wondering if he could actually confide in this man about such a thing. He was still half-inclined to ignore this new revelation about himself, to carry on with his duties like nothing had happened. But he also couldn't afford distractions. The withdrawal was bad enough.

“When did you know?” he asked tentatively. “About yourself.”

Dorian smiled tightly. “I don't remember ever feeling otherwise. It was as natural to me as breathing, at least until I was told that it was something to be buried and kept in the shadows.” There was a bitter twist to his mouth, one that Cullen wanted gone, immediately.

“I'm sorry,” he said, knowing that it was far from enough. Dorian waved the sentiment away, shaking his head.

“Oh, don't fret on my behalf. I'm used to being the family pariah, the _altus_ that does all the things that he is not supposed to do.” He chuckled. “And what about you, Commander? You've truly never felt this way toward another man before now?”

Cullen sighed. “It has been a very long time since I've felt anything toward anyone. But it was always women, before. As best as I can recall.”

“The lyrium?” Dorian ventured carefully. “I've heard of that effect, the numbing of desire. Not at all worth it, if you ask me. But then, we Tevinter tend to find the practices of your Chantry and Circle... rather quaint.”

Barbs about slavery and blood magic swam through Cullen's ale-addled brain, but he managed not to let any escape.

“It's not ideal, I'll grant. Still, it served its purpose when I was with the templars. I was too busy to think of such things, let alone act upon them.”

Dorian tutted. “Much the pity. Sex is such fun, you know.”

Cullen tried to will his face not to flush at such frank speech. He wasn't sure that it was working.

“ _Fasta vass_ , you _don't_ know, do you? At least, have you... with women?”

Cullen could feel the heat in his ears now, there was no mistaking it. “Yes. As I said, it has been a long time.”

“Good, good. Not the long period of celibacy, of course, but it is a relief to hear that a handsome young man such as yourself is not completely virginal.”

If Cullen could have flushed deeper, he probably would have. It was ridiculous, the Commander of the Inquisition's army, well into his third decade, being undone by a simple compliment. He really had been out of dealing with this sort of thing for far too long.

“I really should be going, it's very late,” he said. Dorian looked contemplative in a way that was somewhat unnerving, twisting the end of that absurd moustache. He nodded distantly.

“As you say. We really must do something about this situation, though. Can't have you leering at every half-attractive man in Skyhold. I'll think on it, see if we can't find someone... more suitable.” Dorian winked and Cullen rolled his eyes skyward.

“I'm fine,” he said again, now hearing the weariness creep into his voice. “Goodnight, Dorian.”

“Goodnight, Commander.”

The long trudge up the stairs passed in an instant as Cullen was lost in distraction. Alone in his quarters at last, he slipped into bed and prayed for dreamless oblivion.

* * *

Cullen's wish was granted—at least, in part. The nightmares that had been his unwelcome companion of late did not come, but in their place...

Well.

Considering the bent of the previous night's conversation, it wasn't too surprising that his dreams took up the theme. A hazy recollection floated in Cullen's mind, erotic images and phantom sensations. Tanned skin, smooth chest, a lightly stubbled jaw. Any passing resemblance to persons known to him was strictly coincidental, his mind borrowing from what it knew. He told himself this as he slid one hand beneath the blankets, fingertips brushing the waist of his smalls, wrapping around his cock.

Cullen had, from time to time, indulged in this sort of self-pleasure in recent years, but it had been ages since it had been this satisfying. In no time at all, his orgasm took him by surprise, hitting him like a stampeding druffalo. Cullen blinked stars from his eyes, awash with a kind of guilty satiation.

It was early yet, but the troops would be expecting him to lead their drills shortly. Cullen cleaned up and set out his armor, pulling it on piece by piece until he felt ready to face the day. The men needed him clear-headed, so it was just as well that he got the night's adventures out of his system.

Morning drills were business as usual. This, at least, was familiar territory—barking orders above the din of clanging swords and the clatter of wooden shields, running the men through their paces, correcting and praising wherever either was warranted. It was different, being the leader, but not necessarily less tiring. By the time that the men and women under his command were dismissed, around midday, Cullen's feet ached in his boots, his voice threatening to give out. He would have to make some herbal tea, back in his office. With just a touch of honey...

Cullen rolled his shoulders as he made his way back up the stairs. With tea in hand, he returned to the stack of papers that would fill his afternoon—rumors from distant lands, reports from the Inquisitor's journeys, letters from nobles and peasants alike requesting a military presence from this new southern power. The dregs of a third—or was it the fourth?—cup of tea swirled at the bottom of his mug when the door to his office creaked open. No one knocked in the Inquisition, it seemed. Cullen couldn't even muster the energy to be properly annoyed. He sighed and held out a hand for the new report without looking up.

Long fingers curled around his instead, warm and firm. Cullen made a sound of surprise and jerked his fingers back, startled into awareness of the room and the people in it. Of Dorian. Of course it was Dorian.

“What—”

“Ah. My apologies. Of course that wasn't what you were expecting.”

“Well, no. Actually, I thought you were a message runner. Sorry.”

Dorian waved him off. “No, it was my mistake entirely. It looks like you have quite enough to keep you occupied for the foreseeable future, however.”

“Unfortunately, yes,” said Cullen, just barely suppressing a weary sigh. “Every time the bottom of the pile seems to be in sight...” He gestured at the stack of paperwork nearest at hand.

“A councilor's work is never done,” said Dorian. Cullen supposed he would know something about this sort of thing, with his father a magister back home in Tevinter.

“So it would seem.” Cullen smiled wryly. “Did you need something?”

“I can't merely be seeking out the pleasure of your company?” Dorian rested his hip on the edge of the desk and crossed his arms. “Actually, I was wondering if you might be interested in a game, if you can drag yourself away.”

Though there was indeed more work yet to be done before Cullen would allow himself to retire for the evening, the offer was a welcome one. It wouldn’t hurt to take a small break, to rest his eyes and cramping hand—certainly not for a game of chess with a worthy opponent. He could rationalize that this type of recreation also sharpened the mind, even aided in the development of battle strategies.

Cullen began clearing some papers from a side table to set up the game, but it was only after Dorian chuckled warmly behind him that he realized he had not actually conveyed his decision to play. He cleared his throat.

“I suppose I have time to go a round or two.”

Dorian’s eyes danced with amusement as he bit his lower lip, the faintest of audible exhalations betraying his stifled laughter.

“Not like…” Cullen lifted his eyes toward the hole in his ceiling that he truly did intend to fix one day. “Andraste’s sake,” he hissed under his breath.

Dorian had, evidently, decided to be merciful this evening, as he let the double entendre go without further comment. He sat opposite Cullen at the table, long fingers plucking the chess pieces for his side from the drawstring bag and setting them in their positions. They played in near-silence for a little while, only speaking to announce their next move. This was slightly uncharacteristic of the mage, who normally provided sparkling commentary on everything from the mundane to the monumental even as he strategized—but it was late, and perhaps he, like Cullen, was a little over-tired.

If Cullen thought this change from the norm might make Dorian any less fierce of a chess player, he was sorely mistaken. Before he knew it, half his pawns, a knight and a bishop had been captured, and he only retained his other key pieces by the skin of his teeth. He danced away and Dorian advanced, doubled-back, circled in for the kill. It was clear that it would only be a matter of time.

You wouldn’t know it, however, to look at Dorian’s current expression. He held a rook between his fingers, twirling it end over end idly as he stared down at the dwindling pieces on the board. Instead of intense concentration, however, the look on his face was closer to… frustration? Hesitation? The expression was at odds with the game’s clear outcome.

Dorian finally set the queen down in its original location, his next move still incomplete.

“Commander,” he said, resting his chin in one hand as he leaned forward. “Have you considered my suggestion any further?”

Cullen leaned back in his own chair, considering the question. There had been many things suggested to him lately by many people—that was one of the challenges of being an effective leader, how to filter out the noise and choose the ones that would lead to the best outcome for the most people. He... ah. But that was not what Dorian was talking about, though, was it?

Despite the lack of drink, Cullen felt himself flush.

“I’m not certain I know…”

“I realized my mistake almost immediately, of course,” Dorian continued, seeming unfazed by Cullen’s flustered state. “I had forgotten how prudish you Fereldens are when it comes to trysts with those below your station. You Chantry boys, especially. And as Commander, there is no one higher, I suppose. Besides the Inquisitor herself, who’s spoken for and also would not be useful for this particular type of venture, hm?”

Cullen wasn’t certain what type of response Dorian was expecting from him. At the moment, he could give none. He shook his head, which was apparently enough for the mage to press blithely on.

“An equal, then. If not in charm or experience, at least in the most literal sense.” Dorian chuckled, raising one eyebrow. Cullen thought this was meant to be a joke, and attempted to laugh as well, but it came out closer to a wheeze. “Kaffas, you look half-strangled. This isn’t going well at all, is it? You’re much too tense.”

Dorian stood, sweeping his robes from the chair and gathering them around himself with graceful ease. He stepped behind Cullen, still seated, settling both hands atop his shoulders.

“Let me guess,” he said, tone warm yet chiding. “You sit there hunched over your papers for hours, scarcely stopping to stretch or check your posture. You do have the military bearing, at least, so you’ve been taught to stand correctly, but…”

Dorian punctuated his observations by pressing his thumb into the meat of Cullen’s upper back muscles, gently at first, as if to map it out. Cullen could see him nod sharply, just at the edge of his peripheral vision.

“There it is. That armor you wear half the day can’t help, either. Perhaps, if I…”

With nearly pinpoint precision, Dorian located the persistent knot next to Cullen’s right shoulder blade, strumming his thumb across it firmly as if he were playing a lute. Cullen groaned softly, despite himself.

“As I thought.” Dorian pressed in closer to get a better angle—Cullen could feel his chest brush against the back of his head. He tried to twitch forward, but Dorian held him still.

“Please relax,” he said. “This won’t work if you’re as twitchy as a fennec fox.”

Cullen huffed, but let his head loll back against him. It felt a little strange, too intimate perhaps—their friendship had certainly never extended to platonic back massages before. He had to admit that he could use one, though. The mage’s fingers were, well, working a bit of magic—in fact, it even seemed he had infused a little warmth into them. There was a time when it would have caused Cullen a great deal of alarm to have a magic-user use their abilities on him so casually and without warning. Cullen laughed at himself and his former prejudices under his breath, a little derisively, but this turned into another groan—louder this time.

“I don’t think I will be able to work this out in one session, but I do hope this provides you some relief,” Dorian murmured. His hands quested a little further up, closer to Cullen’s neck, fingertips brushing against the bare skin above his collarbone as he dug his thumbs into stiff shoulder muscles. Cullen shivered a little. He felt his tension melting away, even if some of the pain remained.

Dorian lifted his hands and smoothed them over Cullen’s shoulders, ghosting down his arms. He wasn’t certain if this was meant to also release tension, but it felt nice. He hadn’t received a lot of physical attention, of late. There were hand-clasps in greeting and joyous embraces between companions, when the rare occasion warranted it, but nothing that zeroed in on only him, sending little frissons of pleasure that sang through his nerves, raising gooseflesh. Dorian’s attention returned to his neck, fingertips brushing lightly at the nape, then scratching into his scalp. Cullen jumped in surprise, but quickly relaxed into it—the nails scoring through his hair felt sinful, like a forbidden treat he wasn’t meant to desire. He tilted his head back, eyes slipping closed. Maker, he must have looked a sight. Somehow, he couldn’t bring himself to care.

He wasn’t certain how long this continued, but eventually Dorian’s hands stilled and lifted away. Cullen breathed slowly and evenly, feeling that he could fall asleep then and there in the stiff-backed wooden chair. When he opened his eyes, Dorian stood to the side, one hand wrapped around the crest of its backrest.

“Cullen,” he said gently. “Would you allow me to kiss you?”

Cullen felt as if the breath had been punched out of him. He wanted to examine the request from all angles, to wonder if this had been the man’s design from the start, but Dorian was really _very_ close, looking at him earnestly from under dark lashes. Cullen lifted his hand to cover the one on his chair and nodded, not trusting his own voice.

“Marvelous.” Dorian smiled, bright and quick. He dipped down, one hand splayed along Cullen’s jaw, mouth soft and warm as it pressed against his own, obliterating any further thought. There was fire in that kiss, intention underscored by all the vitality contained within him, spreading through Cullen like a barely-controlled burn.

When Dorian pulled himself just a breath away, Cullen found himself leaning forward to crash into him again, tilting his head and licking into his mouth. When they finally separated again, he shuddered on a long exhalation.

“So eager,” said Dorian, clearly amused. “Well. That’s one question answered, then.”

Question? Ah. The great experiment—Cullen had almost forgotten. He felt a little embarrassed suddenly, as if Dorian had been having a laugh at his expense. This warred with the impression that the other man had seemed to genuinely care about his comfort. He set the brief flash of insecurity aside, to examine at a later time.

Cullen cleared his throat, resisting the urge to readjust his clothing, which was now slightly askew.

“Well, then. That was a surprise.”

“I hadn’t intended to just spring it on you, honestly,” said Dorian. “I hope, at least, it wasn’t unwelcome.”

It was evident that Dorian meant this, his usual playful demeanor having retreated for the moment. The corner of Cullen’s mouth lifted.

“Not at all.”

A somewhat awkward silence lapsed between them, the first of Cullen’s memory in the time that they had known each other.

“Well, I should get back to…” Somehow, he couldn’t imagine returning to their game. Not tonight.

“Of course,” Dorian responded smoothly, bowing slightly at the waist as he retreated toward the door. He paused before stepping through, one hand on the jamb. “Consider my door open, Commander.”

As he disappeared into the cool night, Cullen blinked, still a bit stunned. Dorian’s parting words echoed as he returned to his papers, and it wasn’t long before he abandoned any hope of getting more work done that night. It was getting late, anyway. He blew out the candles and climbed the ladder to his bedchambers. Despite his fatigue, sleep did not come quickly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title inspiration and the story excerpts in pre-chapter notes from Dragon Age: World of Thedas Volume 2. Chapter titles from the Muse song “Unintended.”


	2. unintended choice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The ptarmigan spoke up and offered to find the god chief’s heart. … The little bird traveled deep into the Frostbacks. When she could not fly, she crawled. She hugged the ground and weathered the worst mountain winds, and so made her lonely way to the valley where the heart beat._

In the ensuing days, Cullen could almost convince himself that what had happened between them had been a particularly delusional fever-dream, spurred on by a resurgence of desire from his lyrium withdrawal. Only almost. Cullen was now hyper-aware of Dorian’s presence in their war room strategy meetings, and there was something different in his expression when their eyes met, a jolt of acknowledgment, a reminder of heat. After these meetings, Cullen half-expected the mage to approach him, to draw him aside for a more private conversation, but Dorian always left immediately after their business had completed.

Cullen was, of course, professional enough to not allow this to affect his concentration on what needed to be done—training his men, advising the Inquisitor with Josephine and Leliana, delegating everything from the movement of troops to the requisition of provisions. In the increasingly rare moments that he had to himself, though…

It was safe to say that he had not spent so much time on self-pleasure in many, many years. It felt decadent, yet also a relief to be able to indulge in something that had not held his interest since his youth, before the lyrium had taken hold and dulled many of life’s greatest simple joys. (Once he found himself waxing poetic about the act, though, Cullen wondered if perhaps Dorian had a point in his need for an actual companion that was not his right hand. And then this thought brought him right back around to where he started.)

After a little over a week, it became evident to Cullen that he would need to at least have a debriefing of sorts with Dorian, to confirm that they were on good terms, to find their bearings in whatever form that would take. He couldn’t be mooning over the man like a schoolboy because they had kissed once.

Standing at the heavy wooden door of Dorian’s chambers, Cullen wasn’t certain why he was surprised to find it firmly shut. For whatever reason, he had taken Dorian’s word of his door always being open somewhat literally. But that was ridiculous, of course. The man, like anyone, would sometimes require privacy, or would close the door when he was not present.

However, Cullen knew for a fact that Dorian had said he intended to return to his chambers after arriving with the Inquisitor and the Iron Bull that afternoon from a weeklong mission away from Skyhold. He rapped his knuckles once, twice against the door. When there was at first no response, he hesitated and considered leaving. It was only his suspicion that he would talk himself out of the endeavor that prompted him to clear his throat, to try at least one more tack.

“Dorian, are you there? It’s Cullen.”

He waited a beat, boots turning in preparation to leave, when he heard Dorian’s voice from within.

“You may enter.”

In contrast to Cullen’s own quarters, Dorian had decorated his room in a more lavish manner, one corner draped with colorful, expensive-looking fabrics that he must have purchased on one of their trips to Orlais. Books were strewn haphazardly throughout, on tables, the floor, in teetering uneven stacks that made Cullen’s fingers twitch. Dorian himself was reclining on a velveteen settee, holding one of these books at eye level. He looked more relaxed than Cullen had ever seen him, dressed in only a lightweight silk robe of deep green, hair loose and slightly fluffy where it swept across his brow. He even wore a pair of wire reading spectacles, perched at the end of his aquiline nose. As Cullen approached, Dorian took these off, setting them on a nearby side table.

“Pardon my appearance,” he said, dragging fingers through the hair that curled a bit around his temples. “I’ve just been in the bath. Six days in the Fallow Mire, can you imagine? I didn’t think I’d be able to scrub away the way that place _feels_ , let alone the swamp muck, wading through that brackish water. If I had known what I was getting myself into…”

Dorian shook his head, grimacing at the memory. He shut his eyes and took a long breath through his nose, then returned his attention to Cullen.

“But that’s done now. It is good to see someone who isn’t an undead warrior out for my blood. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

There was a moment where Cullen considered a different excuse for his intrusion. It would be easy to slip back into easy conversation, to ask Dorian to join him for a game. But that would solve nothing, only delay the inevitable.

“That time, in my office…” Cullen began haltingly, rubbing at the back of his neck. Dorian’s smile spread, though it seemed to hold something back, not quite reaching his eyes.

“I remember. What about it?”

Cullen took a steadying breath. “I wanted to make sure that we were alright. Things feel… different. Awkward? It could be my imagination.”

Dorian chuckled, twisting the end of his mustache with the hand not still holding the book. “You’re very sweet. Commander, nothing happened that was not fully within my intentions. I was the one who came to you, remember? Please put it out of your mind.”

“I can’t,” Cullen spat out, low and urgent. Dorian’s eyes widened as he pressed on. “I can’t stop thinking about that kiss, and I don’t know what to do about it. It’s… haunting me.”

Dorian opened his mouth and closed it again. He wet his lips, clearing his throat lightly.

“I’m sure you say that to all the boys.”

It was an obvious deflection—one they both knew was untrue. Cullen made a noise of frustration in the back of his throat, reaching for the book to set it aside.

“Don’t lose my place!” Dorian chided, hand outstretched toward the slender volume. Cullen slid his forefinger between the open pages and held it there, just out of Dorian’s reach.

“Well,” he continued, grey eyes following this movement. “ _That_ has no right to be so attractive.” From the side table, he fetched a decorative tassel, beckoning Cullen to return the book so that it could replace his finger. That put aside, he stood and invited Cullen to join him on the settee. “Would you like something to drink? I enjoy a nice brandy in the late afternoon.”

As Dorian busied himself with a nearby snifter and a pair of glasses, Cullen took in the figure before him—the lithe musculature of his back, the faint aroma of warm vanilla and sandalwood. As Dorian handed him his glass with a faint smile, Cullen still wondered where they stood. Could he continue this physicality with him, on the pretense of exploring his own sexuality? Would that be fair to the other man? Would he mind, or even enjoy it? Cullen was aware that these were questions he should voice out loud, but they vanished on his tongue. He took a sip of the brandy and let it burn.

“Dorian,” he said after a little while, setting his glass aside. “When you said your door would be open…?”

Dorian arched a brow and Cullen wanted to take the words back immediately, but they floated there, unable to be retrieved once spoken. “It is,” he said simply.

“And by that, ah.”

“Please don’t make me spell it out for you, Commander.” There was a feral edge to Dorian’s smile now, sharp-toothed, insistent. This was all the clarity that Cullen needed. He nodded. After Dorian returned their now-empty glasses, Cullen reached out to grasp his waist, slim yet solid, pulling him closer until he stumbled forward, knees bracketing Cullen’s on the settee.

“I had forgotten,” said Dorian, swallowing as Cullen kissed down the elegant column of his throat, “how single-minded you could be when you had made your mind up about something.”

One side of Dorian’s robe had slipped off his shoulder when he had fallen—Cullen dropped kisses there, too. Dorian’s skin really was so lovely, and he told him so. A complicated expression flitted across Dorian’s face, brows knitting together then smoothing, so quick it would have been easy to miss. His mouth lifted into a self-satisfied smirk.

“You flatter me. How do you want me? I’m yours to command.”

There was an imperative edge to the words, somehow. Cullen abruptly understood that Dorian’s assertiveness in his office may have been a little uncharacteristic, perhaps spurred by a feeling that Cullen would not catch on otherwise—which was probably true. He slid one hand beneath the edge of the robe that crossed Dorian’s chest, smoothing across it until he encountered a pebbled nipple, which he thumbed and pinched experimentally. Dorian tilted his head back and gasped, the sound going straight to Cullen’s stiffening cock like a lightning strike.

How _did_ Cullen want him? He felt his mind shift into Commander mode, confidence surging.

“On your knees,” he said, and Dorian’s eyes darkened, pupils blowing wide. He scrambled to comply, dropping smoothly to the floor. The flagstones were cold and hard—Cullen didn’t want him to injure himself, so he tossed down a large velvet cushion. Dorian only blinked up at him.

“You can use that. To kneel on.”

Dorian nodded, appearing indifferent either way. He did place the cushion beneath his bare knees, however. Cullen began loosening his trousers, indicating that Dorian could assist him. Nerves still jumped in his stomach distantly, numbed somewhat by the brandy—he was not drunk, not by far, but it took the edge off, allowed him to focus on the here and now.

Once Cullen’s trousers were pooled around his boots, Dorian leaned forward, brow quirking in question.

“Yes,” Cullen hissed, and Dorian ghosted his lips over the thin cloth still covering his cock, mouthing over it, pressing his tongue just beneath the head. “ _Maker_. Dorian, please touch me.”

Dorian finally relented, pulling the cloth down his thighs with both hands until Cullen’s cock sprang free. Maintaining eye contact, he flattened his tongue and licked up the shaft in a slow, steady line. Cullen cursed as he swirled around and under the head, then returned to the bottom to repeat this a few more times. Cullen exhaled shakily as Dorian swallowed him down, keeping one hand wrapped around the base. This man would be the death of him—the sight of his soft lips wrapped around his cock had undone him entirely. How had Cullen not known before that he wanted this?

As Dorian moved his hand languidly in time with his bobbing head, Cullen realized with some urgency that this would not last much longer unless he gave warning. He may have been out of practice, but bringing this to quick end wouldn’t do at all.

“Dorian,” he said, and the mage hummed in response, which didn’t exactly help his situation. Cullen pressed his hand against Dorian’s jaw, coaxing him away. Dorian seemed to blink back into himself from somewhere.

“Problem?”

Cullen huffed, thumbing at the corner of Dorian’s mouth. “The opposite. I was about to embarrass myself.”

Dorian smirked at this. “Embarrass? Never. I would say that I was achieving the intended result.”

“Yes, but… I wasn’t done with you yet,” said Cullen. “Let’s move to the bed.”

* * *

Seated at the edge of the bed as naked as the day he was born, Cullen should have felt exposed and vulnerable, but there was something soothing about Dorian’s presence. He glided about the room lighting candles as the sun began to set, humming softly to himself as if he had forgotten the other man was there. Cullen decided that he liked seeing this version of Dorian, still mercurial but softened at the edges, not so full of defensive bravado.

It was a fairly small room and took only a few steps for Dorian to return, Cullen cupping his face as he leaned in for a long kiss. He focused his attentions next on the silk robe’s sash, pulling on one end of the loose knot until it fell away. The fabric parted to reveal what felt like miles of skin for Cullen to explore, hands roaming from the dip of his collarbone to the smooth planes of his stomach, and down. Dorian hadn’t been wearing anything beneath the robe.

“I told you, I just came from the bath,” Dorian reminded him, eyes fluttering closed as Cullen took him in hand, trailing his fingertips over smooth skin. He slipped the robe the rest of the way off Dorian’s shoulders and pulled him down onto the bed.

It was incredible—the heady feeling of skin on skin, limbs entangled, kissing another man breathless. He pressed Dorian back into the pillows and slid down to flick his tongue over one nipple and then the other, taking them between his teeth, teasing out more gasping exclamations. He wanted to return the favor of devoting this sort of attention to Dorian’s cock, flushed dark and stiffening against his hip. Cullen feared, though, that his inexperience would spoil the effect. Perhaps better to stick to things he knew, or that were at least comparable.

“Do you have any slick oil,” he murmured close to Dorian’s ear, nipping at the lobe. Dorian groaned, then laughed softly, disentangling himself long enough to retrieve a small glass jar.

“Do I _have_ any, he asks! Here we are.” Dorian held the jar toward Cullen’s outstretched hand, but pulled it out of reach at the last second. “If this is headed where I think it is… I can show you how, if you require.”

Cullen cleared his throat as he plucked the jar from Dorian’s fingers. “No need,” he said. “I, ah. May have read some books.”

“Some _books!_ ” said Dorian, eyes sparkling with delight. “I wish I could have been there to see that. Were there illustrations of the act? Tell me there were illustrations. Your _face—”_

This had really gone on long enough, and Cullen was not in a mood for even good-natured teasing at his expense. Placing a flat palm against Dorian’s chest, he pressed him back into the pillows, leaning down for a searing kiss as he grasped Dorian’s wrist and pinned it against the mattress by their heads. When they separated, Dorian’s breath and pulse had quickened.

“I thought you said you wouldn’t tease,” said Cullen, only half-serious. He watched Dorian’s throat jump as he swallowed hard.

“Forgive me, and carry on,” Dorian said at last, scarcely above a whisper, lips quirking.

Cullen dropped one more kiss there, then smacked at Dorian’s flank on some bold impulse.

“Turn over,” he said. Dorian once again did not hesitate, eyes darkening as he flipped onto his stomach. Cullen could still scarcely believe what he was doing—what he was about to do, fingers coated liberally with oil, all that skin before him, with the most beautiful man he’d ever seen. He slid his hands down over the curves and valleys almost reverently, taking his time with it despite the urgency of his basest instincts.

There were no more words between them then besides _yes_ and _more_ , only harsh, panting breath, Dorian’s knuckles paling where they grasped the sheets, pushing back against Cullen’s fingers, with only the smallest amount of direction required to give him what he needed. When he was ready, Cullen grasped his hip and held his breath as he pushed into him. He stayed there for a long moment, getting his bearings, willing himself to calm a little. After he pulled back and his hips snapped forward once, it was easy to get into a rhythm.

It really had been a very long time, making things overwhelming enough without this new, thrilling sensation. Cullen also couldn’t remember the last time he had shared an intimate moment like this with someone he cared about, that he knew quite so well. He pulled back for a moment and Dorian turned around to look at him questioningly.

“I want to see your face,” Cullen said, and there it was again for the barest fraction of a second—that complicated, naked expression, quickly replaced by Dorian’s usual preening.

“Of course,” he said, lifting one shoulder as if to say _who could blame you?_ He wrapped his long legs around Cullen’s waist, heels at the small of his back as Cullen pressed into him again. They breathed together, Dorian grabbing at Cullen’s shoulders until he could feel the half-circles of his nails pressing in, lightly raking across his back. He growled low in his throat and Dorian’s eyes snapped open, hands dropping quickly back to his side.

“No,” said Cullen, wanting to chase away the almost-fear in Dorian’s eyes. “I like it.” He was surprised to find this was the truth. “You could… do it a little harder next time.”

Dorian relaxed beneath him, smile going a little wicked. “Yes, sir,” he said, and Cullen couldn’t help but laugh a little.

“I’m not sure about the _sir_ thing in bed, Dorian. I can’t be commanding my men with my trousers tightening every time I’m saluted.”

“That doesn’t _already_ happen?” Dorian teased. “At any rate, I fail to see the problem.”

“You wouldn’t,” Cullen countered. He moved his hips again, a smooth motion that made Dorian groan, head tipping back to expose his throat. They lost themselves once again to the raw sensation, each thrust building ever closer to tipping Cullen over the edge. He could also sense a growing desperation from the man beneath him, who held his bicep in a vice-like grip.

“Want to make you fall apart,” said Cullen between sharp breaths, picking up the pace. “You can touch yourself now. Please.”

It seemed as if Dorian had been waiting for this directive—his gasp was nearly a sob as he slid a hand down between them to tug at his own cock in quick strokes, brutal yet efficient. In truth, it hadn’t been Cullen’s intention to make him wait so long, to deny him anything at all. It seemed that it might enhance something about the experience for Dorian, though. Something else to examine on the other side.

Rhythm became a stuttering thing. Cullen’s hips snapped forward as he buried himself to the hilt once, twice, thighs twitching. Just as he felt his release approaching, everything tightening and narrowing down into a single point of ecstatic pleasure, Cullen pulled free to stripe across Dorian’s stomach with a loud, sustained groan. He felt warmth splashing over his own abdomen just moments before he collapsed onto his side, the image of Dorian’s expression at the apex of pleasure burned into his mind.

They caught their breath together as reality settled over them fuzzily. Cullen refused to allow panic to take hold, but did wonder where things would go from here. As Dorian’s breath began to even out, he still seemed a little stiff and disconnected. Cullen rolled over to face him, propped up on one elbow. There was a soft cloth on the table beside the bed, which he used to gently clean the mess they’d made. After, he skated his fingertips down Dorian’s arm feather-light like he had done to Cullen in his office. Dorian shivered.

“Okay?” said Cullen in a low tone. He repeated the motion the opposite direction, this time with the back edge of his fingernails, as lightly as he could manage. After a few passes of this, up and down, he settled his hand over his shoulder. Dorian took a deep breath through his nose before his eyes finally settled on Cullen’s.

“You took to that well,” he said with a satisfied twist to his mouth, which startled a laugh out of Cullen. “Bravo.”

Dorian stretched languidly against the sheets and reached up to grip the headboard, arms flexing. Even though they had just gone, Cullen’s cock twitched a little at the sight of all that lean muscle bared before him. He wanted to hold Dorian’s wrists there, to secure them with one of his many expensive scarves and sashes, to f—

Dorian was smirking at him wickedly—of course, the man knew _exactly_ what he was doing. Still, Cullen remained surprised at the intensity and specificity of his desires. Though he never had considered himself a passive lover, he had not known that taking charge to this degree in the bedroom could be so satisfying. It was, he realized ruefully, probably a conversation they should have had in advance—though he would not have known how to approach it, hadn’t even realized it would be necessary. At any rate, Dorian seemed unbothered. Pleased, even.

But now, more uncharted waters. Did Cullen dress now and leave? Dorian didn’t seem the type who would ask a man to stay, but Cullen was uncertain if he wanted him to. If it would even be appropriate, given that they were not… attached in that way. As Cullen hesitated over this dilemma, Dorian yawned delicately behind one hand.

“I had not eaten anything before you arrived at my door, but I think I’m much too tired now. Have you had supper?”

“I hadn’t,” said Cullen.

Dorian stared at him for a moment. When nothing more was said, he nodded decisively.

“Well, don’t starve on my behalf! I believe there should still be some venison stew in the kitchens, from what the hunters brought back. It’s too gamy for my taste.” Dorian sat up as he spoke, retrieved his robe from the floor and shrugged it back on, cinching the sash.

Cullen followed his lead. Once dressed, he lingered by the bed, where Dorian had resumed reading his book. He looked up at Cullen as he approached.

“Ah,” he said. “You want to talk about this. Let’s do that now rather than having it haunting you for weeks, yes?”

Cullen flinched a bit at the almost cavalier reference to his fixation over their kiss, but if Dorian noticed, he made no indication and pressed on.

“I had a marvelous time, so please don’t worry. It was enjoyable for you as well?”

Cullen nodded, feeling as if things had become slightly off-kilter. “Yes. Very much so.” He wanted to do it again.

“Perfect. There we have it. Everything is fine.” Dorian’s smile was brilliant, luminous, and yet there was a sick feeling in the pit of Cullen’s stomach, tight and hot. It still felt unfinished between them, the tension nearly unbearable despite his comforting words. Cullen wanted to part on a good note—he swayed forward and felt Dorian’s fingertips against his chest, stopping him cold.

“If this isn’t that,” said Dorian, “then let’s not go through the motions. Have mercy, Commander.”

Hearing Dorian’s icy tone, Cullen swallowed hard. “Right,” he said. “I’ll go.” He turned on his heel and let the door swing shut behind him.


	3. mending broken

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The heart was far too heavy for the tiny bird to carry, so she rolled it, little by little, out of the valley and down a cliff, and when the golden cask struck the earth, it shattered. The pain of it roused the mountain god to come see what had happened. When Korth neared his heart, it leapt back into his chest, and he was whole again._

Going to bed with Dorian had _not_ gotten the whole thing out of Cullen’s system, shockingly enough. And if he’d thought their relationship strained or changed before, it was now for certain. The man kept disappearing conveniently in every room that Cullen arrived in. Once, Cullen had seen the back of him disappearing around a column as he entered the gardens; another time, an untidy stack of magic books hastily abandoned in his favorite corner of the library was the only evidence of his presence.

Cullen couldn’t account for what had happened. Had his attempt at a parting kiss so offended him? With how quickly the temperature in the room had cooled after they had come back to their senses, he would almost think that his performance had been disappointing. Or had Dorian feared that Cullen would become attached if he didn’t put their encounter back into its box? Was that what “have mercy” had meant?

For a man approaching his middle years and in command of one of the most influential military forces in Thedas, it felt a little embarrassing that Cullen had been spending this much mental energy on the situation. But perhaps considering the years he’d spent in lyrium’s mad grasp, he was making up for lost time.

Despite his grousing about the Fallow Mire, Dorian volunteered to travel with the Inquisitor to the Dales not long after. Cullen watched from the ramparts as they set off with a group of about twenty men and women on horseback, laden with supplies for a long trip.

“He carries his pain like a tonic.”

Cullen was startled by the reedy voice at his shoulder, but it was just Cole. Of course. Even after all this time, the boy still spooked him—when he could remember he existed.

“Yes,” he said. There was never any point asking Cole what he meant by anything.

“The mercy of the Divine is to provide what is needed, not what is wanted,” Cole intoned in a dreary sing-song. Then he drifted away. Cullen furrowed his brow as he watched him go. Strange. He hadn’t taken the spirit to be particularly devout.

* * *

Cullen thought that Dorian being away might at least allow him to focus on his duties, but instead he found himself spiraling worse than he had in months. He was testy, distractable, sinking into dark moods late at night in his office. On one of these nights, he sat at his desk staring at his lyrium kit, holding the wooden lid open with trembling fingers. Abruptly, he slammed it shut, sweeping the makings violently off his desk along with all of the papers, pens and whatever else had been strewn across it. Shouting in frustration, Cullen slammed his fist into the wood, wincing only a little at the sting in his knuckles.

This wasn’t because of Dorian, not really. But Cullen’s untethered state of mind had allowed a crack to form in his carefully constructed façade, and uncertainty rushed in like seawater. Cold dread settled over him, tightening his chest, restricting his breath.

These were the moments when he was supposed to check in with Cassandra, to verify that he was still capable, still _him._ And he’d told Trevelyan that he would also confide in her if he was struggling, when he had told her about his withdrawal and she had supported his decision without question. If their friendship had not suddenly been on such shaky ground, even Dorian’s company would usually provide a good distraction. They were all in the Dales now, at least a day or two’s ride away from here. Cullen had become over-confident, believing he had conquered in such a short time what so many others had failed to overcome in their lifetime. How naïve he had been, to convince himself that he was superior in some way to his peers who remained enslaved to their addiction.

Cullen couldn’t stay here, not when every moment brought him closer to succumbing to temptation, so desperate he was to feel strong and right again. Not trusting himself to even touch it long enough to set it to rights, he left the lyrium kit where it fell and locked the door to his rooms behind him. The cool air on the ramparts was bracing, distracting, the wind stinging his face almost a welcome sort of hurt. Standing there looking over the fields reminded him of the last time he watched Dorian depart, though—it did little to chase away the cobwebs of melancholy. And so he went the one place that he knew he would not be alone at this time of night, where he wouldn’t have to think or be drawn into a serious conversation with anyone.

The tavern was lively as ever, though the hour was late enough that several of the patrons had reached the stage of belligerence, leaning on their companions, shouting above the din with slurred tongues. The Iron Bull and his Chargers raised their mugs as Cullen stepped through the door, then returned to whatever spirited tale that one of their number was telling, ale sloshing as they gestured. Cullen knew he would be welcomed if he pulled up a chair nearby, but he hesitated, unsure what kind of companionship he had to offer in this state, even as an observer.

“What would you like?” the bartender asked as he dried a glass.

“To forget,” said Cullen, and the other man barked a laugh.

“You and every one of these poor saps, Commander. But I think I have just the thing.”

Scanning the shelves behind the bar, he pulled down a dark, curving bottle.

“The Inquisitor herself found this one in some abandoned noble estate. Only a few hundred bottles ever made, they say. It’s Antivan spirits. Goes down smooth as silk, that's what makes it so dangerous. Would you like to try it?”

Cullen sensed this wasn’t a bottle the man would offer up to just anyone. Another time, he probably would have demurred, gone for something more egalitarian. He was no fancy noble, with fancy noble tastes. But this was not an ordinary night, and he was of a mind to live a little dangerously.

At the inclination of his head, the bartender poured a finger of the dark liquid into a glass. Cullen swirled it, took a sniff—like whisky, but with a touch of pungent spice. It bloomed on his tongue as he took a sip, warm and complex. He hummed with approval and lifted his glass toward the bartender in a wordless toast.

Cullen had been alone at his corner of the bar when he approached, but felt a presence at his shoulder when he was about half done with his drink. They didn’t speak at first, so he assumed it to be no one he knew well and didn’t bother to look over until the bartender approached for their order.

“A beer,” said a masculine voice. “Or—” A face floated into Cullen’s periphery to peer into the nearly empty glass. “What’s he drinking?”

Cullen turned his head toward the speaker as the bartender stumbled over a response.

“Ah, that’s not. That is to say, it’s no longer… available…”

“Give the man a glass,” said Cullen, without looking at the bartender. Sutherland’s mouth curved up slowly. Cullen was still looking at him as both of their glasses were filled with another finger of the Antivan spirit, as they raised their glasses to clink together. The sound that issued from Sutherland as he took a first sip was practically a moan.

“Merciful Andraste, what _is_ this? What’s it called?”

The bartender shrugged a shoulder. “Don’t know the proper name. Antivans call it, erm, Sip-Sip, I think.”

Cullen almost spat out his mouthful of the divine liquor. He leaned onto his arms, dissolving into a fit of laughter—and this seemed to be catching, as delighted laughter rang out beside him. Sutherland gripped Cullen’s forearm as his shoulders shook, tears springing to the corners of his eyes.

“S… Sip-Sip. They call _this—_ ” Sutherland couldn’t seem to get ahold of himself, dabbing at his eyes with the back of his free hand.

Even as the initial amusement faded, aftershocks remained as they giggled into their glasses for the next few swallows. Cullen would never admit to such a thing with a clearer mind, but it did feel good to have something to laugh about, a companion beside his dark thoughts. Sutherland’s hand did not leave his forearm; it lingered there casually even as he had loosened his grip. Cullen was surprised to find he didn’t mind, that the suggestion there sent heat to his belly that the spirits couldn’t account for.

If this was a night for uncharacteristic indulgence, to drive away his inner demons, perhaps this was something that Cullen could allow himself, consequences be damned. Or maybe that was the Sip-Sip talking. Regardless, he felt himself sway into Sutherland’s space as the minutes ticked by, drinking and talking idly of things of no real importance. Dorian was probably correct in his assessment that the man was a bit more brawn than brain—but now Cullen was thinking about Dorian, and that was what he had come here to avoid. He threw back the last of his drink, willed it to dull the edges of these thoughts that stuck sharp like a knife between his ribs.

Even in his somewhat inebriated state, Cullen was aware enough to realize it wouldn’t do to be flirting brazenly with the young company leader in full view of those who held him in high esteem. Something making him bold, he leaned in slightly to whisper into Sutherland’s ear. The man flushed slightly, but he nodded and hastened to finish his own drink. Sliding the empty glass toward the bartender, he bid Cullen a good night and retreated upstairs. Cullen waited what felt like a safe interval, then followed him.

Sutherland’s small company had rooms on the second floor, but few patrons remained at the tables on this level so late in the night. Cullen did his best to appear casual as he passed them by, but they were well into their cups and paid him no mind. Though he could not recall which door was the leader’s room, the one cracked slightly at the end of the hall seemed a fair guess. Cullen pushed it open with a flat palm to find Sutherland pacing just inside. The man stilled as Cullen stepped inside and shut the door firmly behind him.

“Sutherland,” he said.

“Please. You can call me Donal, Commander.”

Cullen wasn’t sure he wanted to—he had honestly forgotten the man had a first name, to his shame, and of _course_ it also started with those letters. Instead, he addressed other concerns that floated through his mind, blurry but still present.

“I want this,” he admitted slowly, tongue heavy in his mouth. “But I won’t have gossip spread through Skyhold, rumors of preferential treatment to our agents—”

“I’m leaving tomorrow,” Sutherland said urgently, a little breathless. “We’ve been hired by the mining caste in Orzammar to rescue a missing expedition. Then we’ll have enough coin to establish our own base in the field, still serving the Inquisition but—”

Cullen cut him off with a rough kiss, holding the man by the wrists and crowding him up against the door. Things moved quickly from there, impatiently. Cullen’s mouth on Sutherland was graceless, messy, but still produced such vehement curses above him that he had to halt his attentions to stifle them with one broad hand. He stood beside the bed and fucked into Sutherland bent over at the waist, his arms braced against the mattress.

When Cullen woke, his memories of the night were like this—little disconnected vignettes, images of the man glistening with sweat, panting beneath him. A trickle of doubt and regret crept in, though his body felt satiated, other than an encroaching headache from too much strong drink. He had forgotten to temper this effect by alternating with water. Apparently, he had also forgotten to leave Sutherland’s bed, after.

A beam of sunlight streamed into the room through a crack in the curtains, illuminating an ordinary tavern room, with no sign of Sutherland’s meager belongings. Cullen rolled across the empty space beside him on the bed to cast about for any sign of the man—a note, a token. Of course there was none. Cullen threw an arm over his eyes to block the too-bright light and laughed, short and bitter. He hadn’t wanted anything more from him, so why in the Void did he feel so empty?

* * *

Over the next few days, Cullen did his best to keep busy, filling every idle moment with more work until he scarcely had the energy to climb the ladder to his bedroom and fell asleep almost before his head hit the pillows. He did not return to the tavern as he recognized a dangerous seduction there, crooking its finger at him to replace one addiction with another, be it drink or carnal pleasure. Josephine seemed close to saying something at times, her brow furrowed, scrutinizing his appearance as he summarized high-level reports in her office. Even if they never spoke of it, Cullen was grateful for her concern. If he ever seemed compromised, he trusted the other advisors to step in before it affected their operations.

The worst of it did pass. A day arrived when Cullen realized that he hadn’t been remotely tempted to prepare a dose of lyrium, that the idea once again made him shudder with dread rather than anticipation. He was more aware than ever that this was not a permanent state—but even so, it felt like hope. Cullen had made it through to fight another day. He had not failed the Inquisition, or himself.

Not long after, Cullen was awakened early one morning by shouts from below, the sound of wagons and whinnying horses. The expedition from the Dales had returned. Even as a strange, fluttering hope took shape in his chest, something felt wrong. The noise was too chaotic, as if someone was sounding an alarm, awakening Skyhold with purpose at this pre-dawn hour.

Cullen shouldered his way through the crowd which parted, murmuring, as they became aware of his presence. There were several people clustered at its center, bent low, one person or another peeling off to fetch an item or deliver a message. He had expected more attention at his approach, but no one here seemed to pay him much mind. Cullen spotted Cassandra among them, helm tucked under her arm, looking harried with dried blood streaking her face and hair.

“What happened?” he asked, catching her by the elbow. She blinked at him at first, as if she wasn’t quite sure where she was, then grimaced and shook her head.

“There was an ambush,” she gritted out. “We had finished our mission and planned to break camp at dawn to come home. These stragglers attacked our camp in the night—”

The center cluster was moving, now, two men on each side carrying a litter that contained a limp figure draped in cloth. Fear gripped Cullen by the throat, sending tendrils of cold down through his chest. He _knew_ that leather-braced arm hanging off the litter, fingers relaxed and swaying with its movement. All conscious thought stopped, replaced by white static like a snowstorm, vision tunneling. Cullen was dimly aware that he had moved, that he was shouting, that a woman stood before him with a hand against his chest as he tried to surge forward. She must have used magic to hold him back. That was something he would have been able to stop, once.

“Where are they taking him?” he demanded, aware of how he looked, how he sounded, but not finding himself able to care in the slightest.

“The infirmary,” the woman said, voice assured and calm, and something unclenched within him. Cullen’s heart thumped to the rhythm: _Not dead. Not dead. Not dead._

There was nothing to do but let the medics and healers work. Dark blue shadows resolved into the familiar out-buildings of Skyhold as the sun began to rise, the warm light at odds with Cullen’s uneasy spirit. Cullen could have ordered his way inside, he had that authority, but he didn’t think he could bear it, not when there was nothing he could do to affect the outcome. Instead, he lingered in the yard with some of the others in Trevelyan’s inner circle. They tried to brief him on the mission—what they had accomplished, what had gone wrong, the mad dash home with the wounded—but he only heard about half of the words, both heart and mind locked inside that room. He tried to absorb what he could.

It had been a raiding party of Freemen who had caught the party by surprise in the night, sniping their night watch and swarming their tents, killing three more people before enough woke to sound the alarm. A chaotic fight ensued—the Freemen ultimately captured or killed, but not before several more people in the camp had been grievously injured, Dorian among them.

“We were overconfident,” said Cassandra, bitterly.

There was something, Cullen sensed, that they were not telling him. They kept avoiding eye contact with him, pausing during their accounts of the attack as if self-censoring. Frustrated, he turned to someone that he knew would be forthright with him.

“What happened,” he gritted out for the second time that morning. Varric blanched at whatever he saw in Cullen’s face, then let out a long breath, eyes closed.

“Sparkles is going to be okay, Commander,” he said slowly, as if trying to calm a wild horse.

“Varric.”

“…It was a red Templar,” he finally said, hands spreading, and Cullen cursed up at the cloudless sky. “Stopped his magic cold. And this guy had a wicked sword. No one was able to get over to him before… slashed right across his back. Shit—you okay? You’re not gonna pass out on me, are you? I’ll try to catch you, but we might both end up in the dirt.”

Cullen shook his head, waving him off as he crossed back to the infirmary, though he did feel shaken, unsteady. His corrupted former brethren. What he himself could have become, there but for Andraste’s grace, so to speak. It made him feel responsible somehow, as if he had to atone for every misdeed of his order, even when he no longer counted himself among them. Cullen’s stomach churned and he swallowed bile, leaning heavily against the stone wall. At a certain point, he stopped caring about appearances entirely and slid down to slump there, head in his hands.

Perhaps he slept. Or perhaps the hours just sped by in a fuzzy blur, even as they seemed to crawl. The sun was high in the sky when the door to the infirmary opened. The same woman who had stopped Cullen by the gates met him with a tight, weary smile.

“Dorian Pavus,” he breathed out. “Is he—”

“He’s resting. Come back tomorrow.”

Cullen considered arguing. He could pull rank to reassure himself that Dorian was, in fact, still breathing. Or he could avoid being a potential source of stress for a man who had just been snatched from the jaws of death. Reluctantly, he returned to his rooms and other duties.

* * *

Cullen rapped his knuckles against the door, painfully aware of the context of the last time he had been in this position. “Come in,” came Dorian’s voice on the other side, softer than usual but steady, and Cullen’s heart leapt into his throat. It stayed there as he stepped inside, drinking in the sight of him healed and whole. Propped up by pillows in the bed, Dorian looked drained, his appearance neat but not up to his usual impeccable standards. Cullen had never seen anything better.

“Kaffas,” said Dorian. “You look like death itself. Come here.”

Cullen sat on the edge of the bed, careful not to disturb Dorian’s outstretched legs. “You’re not supposed to be worrying about me,” he chided, and Dorian scowled at him.

“Those circles under your eyes are so dark I’d think you got into my kohl while I was away. And it can’t only be from fussing over me these past two days.”

Cullen shook his head, unsure how much to say about his near-relapse.

“I’m better now. More importantly, _you_ are better. When they brought you in…” His voice broke.

“Oh, don’t get all maudlin on my account,” said Dorian, making a face. “I’ve had worse. Truly.”

Almost losing Dorian had crystallized a few things for Cullen, made him willing to take risks he otherwise might not. With shaking hands, he reached out to caress the side of his face, swept a thumb over his cheekbone. Eyes fluttering shut, Dorian turned toward Cullen’s palm and took a long breath through his nose. A pit formed in Cullen’s stomach as he realized he was trying to catch the scent of lyrium at his wrist’s pulse point.

“Dorian.” Cullen swallowed. He couldn’t bear this, certainly not in combination with the lyrium-mad Red Templar who had sliced open Dorian’s back. Unlearning the anti-mage sentiment from his past—in truth, a continuing process—had been ever-present in Cullen’s mind as his close friendship with Dorian had developed over the past year. It was a part of his history, his growth as a person, but Cullen was all too aware that any magic-user would be entirely justified not to trust him.

Dorian’s eyes snapped open. He looked distinctly relieved, and it was strange how this made Cullen feel a little sad. Was Dorian actually surprised that he had not succumbed? Part of him wished the other man had just asked him plainly, but he understood that it was… somewhat delicate. Like much surrounding them. Like what he still had to say. He let his hand fall and steeled his nerves.

“I missed you,” Cullen said, because he had, and he was done with not being honest. Even if Dorian only had feelings of friendship toward him, he would place all of his cards on the table before he folded. Dorian’s face betrayed little—the admission seemed to neither please nor annoy him. Well, it was a start.

“Did you,” he murmured.

“Yes,” said Cullen. “I don’t like where we left off, before you departed for the Dales.”

“I told you, everything is fine,” Dorian said smoothly, and Cullen wanted to shake him. “Don’t worry on my account.”

Cullen’s brow furrowed. On _his_ account? It felt like they were having two very different conversations—Cullen fumbling to express his newly-realized feelings and Dorian deflecting, giving him an out when he didn’t want one.

“Ah, that reminds me,” Dorian continued, oblivious. “Bull paid me a visit earlier today. He happened to mention he’d seen you at the Herald’s Rest about a week past, hanging off the arm of our favorite pretty young adventurer.”

Dorian’s lips quirked with amusement that Cullen certainly didn’t feel. He _had_ planned to tell Dorian about his encounter with Sutherland, but hadn’t expected it to go like this. Well, there was nothing to be done for it now.

“We drank together, yes.”

“Mm. Bull said you went upstairs? To his room, I assume.”

“…Yes.” Cullen couldn’t help but feel like he was being interrogated, even as Dorian seemed wholly unaffected—if anything, he acted as if they were swapping tales of amorous conquest.

“Good, good. And how was that? Everything that you hoped?”

Cullen scrubbed a hand across the stubble on his chin.

“Hmm. Fine, I guess. It was… sex. Like you said before. Fun.”

“Ah,” said Dorian. He made a show of rearranging the blankets around him. “Well, sometimes that is all one is looking for—”

“He wasn’t you,” Cullen cut in bluntly, heart hammering in his chest. If he was wrong…

There was silence for a moment and then Dorian laughed, too bright and startled-sounding to be real. “That’s understandable, I suppose. Have I ruined you for other men, then?”

He was teasing, of course, but Cullen tilted his head, considering the question seriously.

“Maybe you have,” he said, and Dorian’s eyes widened.

All in, now.

“I really have missed you, Dorian. Your companionship. Your friendship.” Cullen took a shaky breath. “But… not just that. I care for you. And I was afraid I’d ruined things between us, feeling this way, being selfish. Then I almost lost you.”

Cullen swallowed a lump in his throat as Dorian watched him quietly, face unreadable. It was too late to turn back.

“So, you can tell me to shove off, to the Void with my feelings. We can leave it at this and never speak of it again. Try to return our friendship to the way that it was, I hope. But I’m also offering more. If you’ll have me.”

Cullen extended a hand, palm-up on the blankets as he met Dorian’s startled gaze. For several long moments Dorian just stared at it, his mouth opening and closing soundlessly. Eventually he reached out too, lacing their fingers together, and Cullen released the breath he had been holding since he had finished speaking.

“Sorry, I. I’m not usually rendered speechless, I know. But when this started, I would never allow myself to even hope…”

“When it started?”

Dorian scoffed, tightening his grip on Cullen’s hand. Still strong, despite his recent injury—he was healing well.

“My dear Commander. It is a little embarrassing to admit that I may have carried a bit of a torch for you since I watched you lead a training exercise in the camp at Haven. All commanding and swoony. Of course, I did see you smirking at the ladies who passed by making eyes at you, and assumed… Silly of me.”

“It was a fair assumption. Wrong, ultimately, but fair.” Cullen considered for a moment, mind racing at these revelations. “Hold on, though. That would mean… you kissed me because you _liked_ me, back then.”

Dorian rolled his eyes fondly. “Yes, you dolt.”

“So there’s a selfish element after all. And here I thought you were just helping a friend.”

“Yes, well, that was the idea at first.” Dorian twisted the end of his mustache, looking thoughtful. “But it’s not as if I wanted to be someone’s experiment, to be tossed aside once they decided whether they enjoyed kissing men. Oh-ho, no. I’ve had enough of that during my misspent youth for this lifetime _and_ the next, thank you.”

Cullen frowned, unhappy with this implication. “But you took that risk, with me.”

“I did,” said Dorian, his smile a little sad. “And then when I gave you the opportunity to make an excuse to stay in my bed, and you did not take it—”

“…I’m a fool.”

“Mm. Perhaps. We could both have been more transparent about our intentions, I think.”

“Right.” Cullen dragged a hand through his hair and looked over at Dorian, lips quirking. “Just so we’re on the same page, I like you, too.”

Dorian tilted his head back and laughed with delight. He really was the most gorgeous thing that Cullen had ever seen. “Wonderful. I should very much hope so.”

When Cullen leaned in, Dorian was there to meet him halfway, arms coming up to loop around his neck and pull him closer, until there was no space or breath between them. Cullen could feel Dorian’s heart beating rabbit-quick against his own chest as they kissed with the fresh knowledge of everything that they felt for each other, the boundless possibility of everything that lay before them.


End file.
